


Practical Language Policies of the Colonial Fleet

by inlovewithnight



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-13
Updated: 2005-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-18 05:16:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Spans from "33" to "Resistance."</p>
    </blockquote>





	Practical Language Policies of the Colonial Fleet

**Author's Note:**

> Spans from "33" to "Resistance."

1\. _In accordance with the general marginalization of the Sagittaron colony, the characteristically assumed accent of its people tends to be stigmatized throughout wider Colonial society. Common associations are poverty, low intelligence, and criminal elements._

"I think Dualla needs a break from the CIC," the new CAG said to nobody in particular as the pilots walked from the showers to the ready room. He was walking next to Racetrack, and when nobody else responded, she realized he might be talking to her. No idea why he would; she didn't know him from a hole in the bulkhead, except that he was the Old Man's son, but it was rude to completely ignore him.

"Why?" she asked finally. Not the most intelligent question, but frak it, she was tired. He had a weird glitter to his eyes and a little grin on his face, though-- stimmed off his ass like the rest of the Viper crew. Reflexes had to have that extra edge to keep up with a Viper; it would probably be two or three more jumps before the Raptor pilots and ECOs would need drugs to fly.

"I could hardly understand a word she was saying by the end of the last round," the CAG-- _Apollo_ , her sleepy brain supplied, _try to remember the boss's name, for frak's sake, Margaret_ \-- said, running his hand back through his hair, making it stand up in funny little spikes like a kid's. She fought down the urge to reach over and smooth it down; there was no place for children here. "She sounded like--"

"--like a goat-frakking dirt-eater from Sagittaron," Flattop added, jogging up to join them with a manic little bounce that probably meant that his drugs were _just_ kicking in. "I noticed it too, Captain. Frakking hilarious, hearing nice little Dee talking like--"

"Watch your language," Apollo interrupted him. "No need for derogatory--" he stumbled over the word hard enough to start giggling "--terms. Sagittaron's one of the Colonies, and Dualla seems to do her job just fine."

"Oh, yeah," Flattop said, nodding. "It's just, she talks like a person most of the time, but when she's real tired-- or when she's drunk, and oh man, if the Cylons ever go the frak away, Captain, you've got to come down to the Triad games, they're wild--"

"Must be embarrassing to lose half your pay every month to somebody who's not a person," Racetrack finally said, staring down at the way her boots carved the floor panels into clean sections of light and shadow.

"Huh?"

"You said usually she 'talks like a person,'" Apollo reminded him. "Which means sometimes she's not a person." He hesitated, then shrugged. "That's just a really frakking stupid thing to say, Flattop."

"Oh, come on, I just meant that she must've worked hard to get rid of her accent, and it's kinda funny when it just comes back like that."

"Hilarious," Racetrack said flatly, and Flattop dropped back again, yelling something at Beehive. The CAG glanced over at her with a wry little smile, and after a step or two she smiled back. He was a pretty good guy, for a Viper jockey. Made sense, being the Old Man's son. Too bad they'd probably all be dead in a jump or two. She wouldn't mind having him around Galactica at all.

2\. _Professions often create their own specialized vocabularies, typically termed jargon. Communities of individuals fluent in such specialized language may forget that outsiders are not similarly conversant._

Apollo stared at the papers in his hands, shuffling through them again and again, stopping at random to consider a sheet and then move on. "I have not the slightest _clue_ what this says," he muttered.

"Sir?" Racetrack glanced at him. She wasn't quite sure why the CAG couldn't fly his own damned Raptor, but orders were orders, and anyway it was good to log some extra hours in the saddle. _Why? What are you counting up to, a promotion? A medal? Shore frakking leave? Shut up, Margaret._

"Oh." He seemed surprised that she'd heard him, looking over with an embarrassed little smile. "I just...the report to the President. The one I'm supposed to discuss with the captain. I can't make heads or tails of it. You don't happen to know anything about mining or...refining...or..." He stared helplessly back at the papers. "Do you?"

"No, sir." She flashed the Raptor's signal lights to indicate the start of the landing pattern; the _Maria Andresa_ acknowledged. Pretty name for such a godsawful ugly scow of a ship.

"I think these are written in _code_ ," he groaned, smacking the papers against the arm of his seat. "And Roslin's instructions aren't much better-- they're just in political code instead of minerese or whatever this is."

"Maybe you should've asked the President to clarify, sir," she said, biting her lip to keep from smiling at his irritation. If she looked out of the corner of her eye, she could even tell that he was pouting over the offending papers.

"No, because at this point she still thinks that I'm reasonably bright," he said, and another sideways glance confirmed that he was smiling at her. "Let's not disillusion her quite yet, okay?"

"Your secret's safe with me," she said, managing a little grin back before she returned her eyes to her console. _I wonder if the miners are going to kick his ass as bad as the prisoners on_ Astral Queen _did?_

"Thank the gods for small favors," he sighed, looking down at the papers again. "Now if only they would translate _this_ for me..."

"May I offer some advice, sir?"

"Be my guest, Lieutenant." He turned in his chair to face her, and she carefully kept her eyes straight ahead. No way was she going to frak her landing with the CAG watching.

"I took Fleet PR for about two and a half weeks," she said, easing back on the throttle.

"Why'd you stop?"

"I remembered that I don't actually like to talk to people." He laughed at that, and she bit her lower lip to hide her smile as she guided the Raptor down. "Anyway, one thing I do remember is that if you ask open-ended questions-- like 'what do you think about that?'-- most people will tell you more than they ever planned to." The Raptor touched down in the landing bay with a gentle thump. She turned to Apollo and raised her eyebrows.

He nodded. "Like maybe re-explaining an entire report? I guess it's possible. Thank you, Lieutenant." He tapped the papers into a neat stack and stood up, smoothing his jacket. "You're clearly the brains of this operation."

"I'll never tell, sir," she said. He grinned and squeezed her shoulder as he passed, walking off the Raptor and calling out to the miners as she settled down in the chair to wait.

3\. _Diglossic refers to individuals who switch between dialects or other language variants in different sociolinguistic domains. One variant is considered privileged, and appropriate for more socially-valued domains, while the other is restricted to the less-valued, often primarily to the home._

All of the alcohol that had been stashed away for the post-decommissioning celebration came out for the post-"frak the Cylons, we got our tyllium" party.

There was a definite difference in the terms, in Racetrack's way of thinking. A "celebration" hinted that those present would hold on to some kind of dignity. They would sip politely from glasses and exchange witty anecdotes about days gone by on the Battlestar. They wouldn't even wrinkle their uniforms.

This, though...this was a _party_. Half the deck crew was out of uniform by now, and over in the far corner a couple of pilots were entirely out of their clothes. Racetrack watched Starbuck deftly maneuver the XO to the other side of the hangar before he could see. _Yeah, let 'em have their fun. Flying CAP with a hangover tomorrow is punishment enough without getting Tigh involved._

Crashdown nudged Racetrack in the ribs until she looked at him, then handed over the bottle. They were just sharing the one; neither of them had been a big part of the mission, and so this wasn't really their party. But it was nice to watch.

"How's it going, lieutenants?" Apollo swaggered over, the man of the hour, his third bottle at the least in hand and a big smile on his face. Giddy as a little kid. Racetrack couldn't really blame him; he'd put his ass on the line tonight and pulled off the impossible, and he probably would've been feeling ten feet high and bulletproof even without the ambrosia. "Hell of a party, huh?"

"Yes, sir," Crashdown said, raising the bottle in either a salute or a toast. "She's a stomper."

"What now?" Apollo tipped his head to the side, blinking his glazed-over blue eyes in puzzlement, and Racetrack took the opportunity to elbow Crash in the ribs herself.

"Talk high-country, cowboy," she said, trying to sound stern but breaking down into laughter. "Pretend you've got some class when you talk to a superior officer." She looked at Apollo and grinned, noticing that his hair was all mussed and spikey again, still wanting to smooth it. "And the hero of the day, too."

"Right, right," Crash said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Where are my manners, my mama raised me right, I _swear_..." He cleared his throat and dropped his voice to an excessively formal tone. "Thank you so much for allowing us to attend your lovely shindig, Captain, it's an honor--"

"Not _shindig_ , farm boy!" Racetrack swatted at his shoulder. Apollo wasn't laughing anymore, just staring at them like they'd both lost their minds.

"Well, frak it, what _should_ I say?" Crash threw his hands up in mock despair. One of them was still holding the bottle, and liquor fell down on both of them like rain.

" _Soiree_ ," she informed him, wiping her face. "Gala event. Or maybe just 'polite gathering of friends and colleagues.' Not a, what do you call it out there with the cows, a hoedown."

"Damn it, I miss a good hoedown," Crash sighed. Racetrack laughed again.

"What the _frak_ are you two talking about?" Apollo finally burst out.

"You ever been to Libron, sir?" Racetrack asked, as Boomer yelled at Crash from across the bay and he wandered off to heed her call.

Apollo shook his head, taking another sip from his bottle and staring at her with those unnerving blue eyes.

"Well, there's the high country and the low country," she said, shifting a little in place, suddenly uncomfortable with his full focus on her like that. "On the main landmass. The low country's where all the livestock is-- the big cattle herds, and the sheep and all that. The high country's where the cities are. If you talk like a rancher up there, nobody takes you seriously."

"Crashdown was a rancher?" he guessed, and she nodded. He held out his bottle, since Crash had wandered off with theirs. "And I take it you're from a city?"

"I'm from Cancero, actually," she said, taking a sip and passing the bottle back. "But my mother's high-country Libran. Well, the way she tells it, she is."

He nodded, the intense focus in his eyes softening. Then his gaze sharpened again, and he reached out to brush his fingers across her face, feather-light against her cheek and then her lips. She caught her breath.

"Sorry," he said, his hand dropping to his side. "You had something..."

She reached out and touched his face, giving in to the impulse she'd shoved down for weeks, tracing the fine arch of his cheekbone, down across the rough start of stubble on his cheek, catching the curve of his jaw and falling away from his chin.

"You too," she lied.

4\. _The standard language variant of pan-Colonial government, trade, and services (including Fleet communication and documentation) is what is termed Caprican Standard. Traditionally, Caprican Standard is the dialect of Caprica City and surrounding areas. The grammar and lexicon of Caprican Standard are taught in all Caprican schools, and there is a movement for it to be the basis for education throughout the Twelve Colonies._

Racetrack watched as people moved through the reception line to meet the new Vice President, balancing ever so delicate glassware in one hand, discreetly tugging at coattails or dress hems. She smiled a little to herself, comparing the scene to the rowdy night on Galactica after the tyllium mission. This was the perfect illustration of a civilized "celebration." Crashdown would never mistake it for a stomper or a hoedown or anything low-country.

"Care to share the joke, Lieutenant?" She turned to see Captain Apollo standing there, a glass of Cloud Nine's finest in each hand.

"No joke, sir," she said, coming to a sketchy sort of attention before he waved her off. "Just enjoying the party." He held out one of the glasses, and she took it with a puzzled smile. "Aren't you supposed to be running security, Captain?"

"The President took me off-duty," he said, squinting out over the dance floor. "Told me to go enjoy myself."

"Then why are you hiding in the bushes, sir?" she asked, bringing her glass high enough to hide her smile.

"I could ask you the same thing," he chuckled. She shrugged, suddenly realizing that she was wearing her dress blues, just as he was, anonymous and drab in Fleet blue while everyone else reveled in the chance to just be a person, a civvie, to put on a dress or a hideous tie and take to the dance floor. And here she was hiding in the bushes.

"I wasn't even going to come over here," she said, looking down at the grass under her boots. She ground her heel down, just a little, just to smell the blades break. "I was on duty until about twenty minutes ago, and then I was going to hit the rack, but Kat and Hot Dog..." She trailed off and rolled her eyes, and he smiled in understanding. "Well, let's just say the pilot bunks haven't been the same since they came along."

"I'll put them on double CAP when I write up the next rotation," he said, looking so smug that she laughed out loud.

"I've got that kind of pull?"

"Well, you need your sleep," he said, with that grin that usually only Starbuck could get out of him, the one that made Racetrack forget for a minute that they were all going to die cold and dark out here. "And it's the CAG's prerogative to look out for his friends."

"Friends, sir?" Stiff and awkward and stupid-- _gods damn it, Margaret_ \-- and spoken before she could stop herself. He flushed instantly and looked away; she bit her lip and mentally kicked herself halfway back to the flight deck. "Looking for somebody?" she asked finally. It would probably be best to just walk away, but her feet wouldn't move.

"Starbuck," he said, scanning the crowd. "I haven't seen her yet tonight."

"I think she's at the bar." Done up like a televid star, too; Racetrack hadn't recognized her when they passed in the corridor.

"Why is _that_ not a surprise?" he laughed, and when she looked up, he was looking at her. She found herself smiling back, patching over the crack that had opened with the word "friends."

"If you want to go find her..." she said, more softly than she meant to, less carelessly. There was no reason for him to stand here in the dark and talk to her for another minute, and furthermore no reason for her to want him to.

"Not until the reception line breaks up," he said, rubbing the heel of his hand against his forehead. "I swear, you learn a whole new way of talking when you become a politician. Every word means three or four different things, I can't keep up with it. Billy, the President's assistant-- he's good at it. He can have it, I'll run security."

"Or hide in the bushes," she murmured into her drink, and he blushed again.

"Ouch, Lieutenant, direct hit."

Her stomach suddenly clenched, the gentle, humorous mood vanishing. _Shoot or get shot, out here, and don't forget it for a minute, Margaret._

"Racetrack?" He sounded confused, worried, and she realized her eyes were stinging with tears. A few had already spilled down her cheeks. Frak.

"I'm fine," she muttered, scrubbing the back of her hand across her face. "Sir. Gods, I'm sorry."

"It's okay," he said, and she stared stupidly down at his hand on her shoulder, for a dazed moment not knowing what it was.

"I should go back," she said, looking at the blunt tips of his fingers against her jacket, scrubbed clean to the pale pink, nails filed straight across. Regulation hands. "I can kick the nuggets out of the bunks, right?"

"You outrank them," he said. "But are you sure you want to go? You haven't danced."

"I don't dance." She swallowed, looking away from his hand as a swirl of color and motion opened up on the far side of the room. "Looks like the reception line's done. You should go find Lieutenant Thrace, it's safe now." She forced herself to smile. "Nobody's going to make you talk."

"Thank the gods." He took his hand away. "Sleep well, Lieutenant."

"I'll try, sir." She turned to go.

"Racetrack," he said, and she looked back over her shoulder. "You have watch tomorrow afternoon?" She nodded. "Not anymore. I'll take care of it."

"You don't have to do that, sir."

He shrugged. "No, but I will anyway." He smiled that warm, living smile again, the one that didn't belong here, didn't fit with what she knew. "Good night."

"'Night, Captain," she said, hurrying away. She was breathing too fast, too loud, as she weaved through the celebrating crowd, running through the conversation in her head. Neither of them had actually _said_ anything of substance. So why was she so frakking glad she'd come over there instead of hitting the rack right away?

 _You're crazy, that's why, Margaret_ , she thought. _You're pilots, not politicians; words only have the one meaning for you. And none of_ that _meant a damn thing._

Unconsciously, she reached across her body, gripping her shoulder where his hand had been.

5\. _Human communication, of course, is not limited to words. Nonverbal components-- facial expressions, gestures, posture, and other physical cues-- are an invaluable portion of any language. And as such, nonverbal language is subject to the same division into domains of appropriate behavior._

He bitched about so-called qualified pilots who couldn't take care of their own planes all the way across the deck and until the Raptor's hatch closed behind them. "Sorry," he said, shifting gears instantly, his voice dropping half an octave and the sneer falling from his face. "I didn't mean any of that."

"I know," she said. "Now what?"

"I wait here," he said, settling down in the jump seat. "You should probably get as far away as possible."

"The Marines saw us walk off together," she pointed out. "I'm going to get questioned anyway once you're gone, I might as well earn it." She folded her arms across her chest, not trusting her hands not to grab something, smash something, bash themselves bloody against the wall. "Got a time frame?"

He shrugged. "Longer than I'd like. If it's too long, we're frakked."

"No numbers, then." He shook his head and closed his eyes, leaning back against the wall. And despite her best intentions, her hands broke discipline; they seemed to float away from her, one cradling his chin while the other traced the curve of his brow. He opened his eyes and looked up at her, puzzled, and she placed a finger over his lips. Her hands were shaking, just enough to notice, and she exhaled in a dry, harsh breath.

He gently took hold of her wrists, pulling her hands away from his face. His lips parted just a bit-- he was going to say something, something sober and logical and absolutely correct, something that would show how he had considered all of the relevant factors and concluded that the best course of action was to maintain rank and order to the end. _Frak that._

She leaned down, bringing her arms together against her chest and drawing his hands out of their defensive brace. She kissed him, blocking whatever well-planned words might have come out of his mouth, catching them before they could escape. He'd talk his way out of heaven and hell if the gods gave him half a chance.

His hands clenched around her wrists, hard enough to hurt, and she pulled back, frowning at him. "Don't try to pull rank on me," she said, staring into his eyes, an inch away, bright blue glazed over with confusion. "You're deserting, remember?"

He blinked, as if only now realizing that that was what he was doing, and let go. She braced one hand against the wall to keep her balance in the small space-- Raptors weren't designed for this-- and settled her weight across his lap, bringing herself closer, still staring into his eyes. She could see all of him there, all of the frakked-up political apprentice daredevil fighter angry romantic pissed-off gentle Apollos, and if she could see them all she could figure out how to he did it, how he kept his bearings out here without gravity or a star to guide by.

His hands moved to her waist, holding her in place as she kissed him again, harder, and she shifted closer still, grinding down against his lap to make clear what she wanted. She wasn't going to say it. Words could be lies.

It wasn't nice, squirming and humping against each other in the jump seat, and it wasn't pretty or pleasant when he cursed under his breath and tipped her back, guiding her down onto the floor and settling himself over her, fumbling to open her jacket. She squirmed out of it and pushed it aside, then turned her attention to his. The buttons were all wrong, mirrored from where her hands expected them to be. She didn't have any practice at this; she wasn't a rebel, she wasn't Starbuck. She was more like him, cursing to himself again as he unzipped her trousers. The dependable, the good, the sad and dull in blue.

He slid his hands up under her uniform tops, over her skin in a perfunctory caress, and she lifted her hips to shove the trousers down. When she reached to open his, he froze, blinking rapidly and staring down at her. _What did you think we were doing here?_ she thought, helplessly frustrated, sliding her hand inside to take hold of his cock and make matters clear. With the other hand, she seized the back of his neck and pulled him down for another kiss, stopping his mouth before he could speak. He let out a sharp hiss of breath against her lips, shaking his head a little before he gave in.

It was fast and rough, like everything, like nights lying in her bunk with one arm flung across her face, her mouth buried in the crook of her elbow, the other hand under the waistband of her shorts, sliding down and digging at herself, only allotting a few minutes to sweat and squirm and feel her heart race, to bite into the soft skin of her arm to keep her gasping quiet. She wasn't even sure if it was pleasure or just raw release, like now when he was frakking her down into the floor, grinding the base of her spine into the metal, thumping the back of her skull down again and again.

His hands were braced against her shoulders, holding her down while he rocked into her. She drew her knees up, gripping his hips between them and pushing back in her own rhythm, countering his and bringing them to an uneasy middle ground. She bit down on his lower lip, not hard enough to taste blood but enough to know it was there. She closed her eyes and hated him for running, for having to play the hero. It made him beautiful and it made him stupid, and she wasn't sure what part she wanted frakking her now.

He let go of one shoulder, reaching down between them to find her clit with his thumb, a practiced touch to get her off just before he came. Fast and rough, like everything out here. She wasn't sure if she felt good or sore, and that was right too-- there wasn't any room for slow and smooth and easy, not here. No place for that, and no time.

They didn't move for a minute, her flat on her back and him crouched over, breathing hoarse and ragged in each other's faces. He stood and turned away, closing his trousers and rubbing his hand across his face. She sat up and scooted back to lean against the wall, and watched him pull the pieces together out of thin air, putting all of the Apollos back in their places, rebuilding Lee Adama from fragments. She didn't know the trick of it, herself. Gods grant a quick death so she wouldn't have to.

"You're going to get pulled in as an accessory," he said, dragging the heel of his boot across the floor. She nodded and shrugged back into her jacket. "Tell them I put a gun to your head or something."

"Tigh won't have a problem believing it," she said, and he almost smiled. Better that he didn't; it wouldn't be warm or bright, not anymore, and she wasn't sure she could bear the loss with any grace.

"Be careful out there," she said suddenly, unsure of where the words came from until his eyes widened a little and she realized that they were his.

"I'll do my best." He took a step closer and reached out to straighten her collar. Again, before she quite knew what she was doing, she moved, catching his hand in hers and drawing it up under her chin in the old, formal Canceran way, the antique gesture her grandmother had made on the day young Margaret left for the Fleet.

Old words, too, slipping off her tongue before she knew them. "Gods guide thy way, traveler," she whispered. "May they light the path with stars."

It was another generation's blessing, from a dead world, and the words couldn't possibly hold any power for the two of them. But he accepted them, smiling a little as he gently reclaimed his hand and fixed her collar. And if the smile wasn't warm or bright, it was living, and that was enough to hold on to-- and more than she had a right to-- as she stepped back in silence and waited for him to fly away.  



End file.
